


Fish Swimming Under a Frozen River

by xXEksXx



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I realized that the plot of this was becoming irrelevant and had to post it, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not Canon Compliant, Not like super graphic but I'm not sure what the limit is here so take heed, Ram Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Wilbur Soot, Shapeshifter Alexis | Quackity, There is suicide in this so be careful, Tommy fucking dies, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, i realized the description didnt portray that but it is astronomically his bad, no beta we die like tommy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXEksXx/pseuds/xXEksXx
Summary: Tommy died alone and sad and in exile, so there was nothing else to be said or done, really, except move on. How hard could it be? I mean, it was just like before, wasn't it?It isn't.Tubbo keeps the compass at his hip, and makes interesting demands of Quackity, who is at war with Technoblade over which one of them is politicizing Tommy's death. Technoblade, Phil, and Ghostbur are trying to live in an idyllic bubble. Dream is far, far away, frantically searching for the secret to revival. Niki is slowly putting together the story of what really happened to him and she's not so sure she's liking what she's seeing.Tommy struggles to remember who all these people are.
Relationships: Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	1. Leave a Light on For Him

Tommy died at the age of sixteen, and he was getting a veteran's death.

Phil almost didn't believe it as he helped Technoblade clasp his dark blue cape over his shoulders. It was a sad day. Tommy's funeral was in four hours. The trip to L'manberg took three. It was the one day they'd be welcomed into the country and it was for something as sickening as their last goodbye to his son. But Tommy couldn't be gone, surely. He just saw him not too long ago. How could he blink and suddenly have lost another son? How?

They'd received the letter just yesterday. Early, early in the morning. That enderman hybrid kid, the one who used to send Tommy letters, delivered it, offered a strange condolence and left before Technoblade had even checked its contents. He'd had half a mind to burn it, what with where it came from. Signed by Tubbo with L'manberg's little wax seal keeping it shut. But they wouldn't write for no reason. So, instead, he brought the letter in and announced its arrival to Phil, who was knitting a new sweater on the couch, and he only opened it when Phil urged him to with a lighthearted tone he would not have had if he knew what was coming next. 

Upon scanning the first few lines, Technoblade just shut down. He couldn't move a muscle. All he could do was keep his eyes planted firmly at the letter, mouth pulled into a firm, grim line, and ears pressed back on his head. Too many voices. Too many feelings. He couldn't move.

"Techno…?" Phil might have called to him, but Technoblade couldn't distinguish his voice from the ones pulsing in his ears. "What's it say, mate?"

Reluctantly, because he was never in the mood for bad news, Phil got up from his spot on the couch and tried to pluck the letter from Technoblade's hands. However, he held firm and Phil, to avoid ripping the damn thing in half, instead took to looking over his shoulder. 

_ Dear Philza and Technoblade, _

_ It is with profound sadness and regret that I inform you of the passing of one Mr. Tommyinnit Minecraft. As of this... _

He read it once, then over again. Then he screamed.

It was this terrible, ear-splitting scream. Technoblade wasn't a stranger to grief, so he recognized it. It was almost the same cry Tommy let out when he watched Phil impale Wilbur on the sixteenth of last November. It was almost the same cry the voices in his head let out when he beat Tommy senseless in a pit last November, too. Of course, he'd heard it at war, too, but that was always less personal. In Phil's voice, it sounded much worse. Phil had never screamed like that. He certainly hadn't at Wilbur's death, just held him close before eventually carefully laying him down and jumping from the wreckage to stop Technoblade's withers. He hadn't when his wife died either, though Techno still remembered the day. They all sat there with her until her last breath. Phil had held her hand and, like any parent should, just tried to pick up the pieces.

This was Phil's second big loss since the DreamSMP got its cruel hands on them. His youngest son, not yet a man, was gone. Apparently. He'd been snatched from under their noses by some cruel twist of fate.

"He… he… it said he ju-" Phil thought he was going to throw up. "He jumped fro- Oh, my baby, my baby…"

Strangely, though Technoblade would usually have no problem comforting Phil in the past, he couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't move. The voices were screaming, too, just as loud.

Do something.

Do something.

It's a trick.

It's not true.

Do something.

Go check on him.

They're lying, surely.

Technoblade couldn't stand the helpless feeling he had. The feeling of uselessness. Of tardiness. Had Phil felt like this every day since Wilbur died? He'd seen Wilbur's death himself, yes, but he'd also known he'd done all he could to circumvent Wilbur's downfall (or maybe he hadn't. Either way, he had at least been there), but now, with Tommy, he couldn't help but feel like he'd completely fucked up. He'd bided his time. He'd let someone kill him.

And when he found out who, there'd be hell to pay, of course.

So, Technoblade had remained mostly despondent for the rest of the day. Phil had tried to put himself together again. He seemed to brighten, just a little bit, when Technoblade managed to croak out around dinner time that it might have been a trap. But his hands still shook and he wasn't sure what he would do.

He hadn't held him as he died, Phil suddenly thought. He'd been able to hold every single one of his loved ones that he'd lost so far. He'd been able to cradle them in his arms or hold their hand as they breathed their final breath. Tommy died alone.

And maybe that's what got Phil the most.

Had there ever been a day, in the past, when Phil couldn't feel Tommy underneath his wings as he went about his day? Or when he didn't see Tommy clinging to the back of a very unamused Technoblade's cloak? Or when he didn't see Tommy carried atop Wilbur's shoulders like some sort of gangly koala? Even after they'd all moved on to greener pastures, Phil never stopped hearing word of how clingy he was. He was always following after Tubbo like a faithful hound, too. He didn't do well alone.

How long had he been alone? He knew others were visiting him. Fundy had been with him the last time he saw him. He brought him slippers! Dream and Ghostbur had been there, too! He had a whole party he had thrown!

Of course, Phil never received an invite, but he figured it was sort of uncool to invite your dad to a party with all your friends, so he understood. Then when Dream had come by and awkwardly explained that Tommy had asked him not to come around anymore because he was upset with him, he kept his space. He understood Tommy being upset with him, really, he did. It had hurt, of course, but Phil knew he had killed Tommy's brother. His idol. He and Wilbur had always been exceptionally close, bounced off each other like two rubber balls, full of laughter and ambition. It made sense that Tommy wasn't over it. It didn't make it hurt any less, though.

But there it was. Tommy died alone. Tubbo had found him the night of. He'd jumped from a huge pillar in the sky, apparently, with his entire homestead destroyed. Nothing on him but a compass and the clothes on his back. Alone.

Phil felt sick again.

Still, that brought them to where they were, preparing to leave their little tundra and face the bigger world. A world without Tommy. A world where he'd never hear Tommy's laugh ever again.

"Are you ready to go?" Technoblade asked softly as Phil draped his own dark, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders. He heard the Axe of Peace make a sharp clanging noise under his cloak. A reminder to Phil that not all was lost. For all they knew, it was all some elaborate lie. A trick to get them in L'manberg territory, so they could ambush them once they arrived.

Deep down, he knew it wasn't so. The letter was too… dark. Phil didn't want to check it again, but he thought there might have been tear stains.

They didn't talk much on the trip, but to be fair, neither of them knew what they would even talk about. What else was there, but Tommy? It couldn't be clearer that neither of them wanted to talk about it, though. Talking through grief had always been Wilbur and Tommy's strong suits. The other two preferred to mull over their thoughts in quiet, or maybe not think of it at all, in Phil's case. Instead, Phil focused on the dark shapes under the pretty water, and Technoblade thought long and hard about Tommy's smiling face, trying to burn it into his memory.

L'manberg was a sorry sight to see.

They gathered in a building Phil recognized to be Church Prime. Not technically L'manberg territory and a place where fighting was looked down upon. There went the ambush idea, he supposed. Tommy had built this place, to a certain degree. Phil passed his hands over the cold walls as he walked through the narrow entrance. He let himself imagine his son's hand had done the same once. Perhaps it really had. Tommy had been there many times.

The many citizens showed up, wearing bleak formal clothes in varying tones of grays and blacks. Phil had expected more screaming and crying, but it seemed only Niki was, but she almost looked more angry than sad and her cries weren't full on sobs. Puffy had a comforting hand on her shoulder. Dream sat in the very back of the room, arms crossed and head downturned like he was deep in thought or maybe even nodding off.

The Arctic Empire immediately caught sight with Tubbo, their enemy, the manifestation of all government. He was Technoblade's sworn antithesis. He was a menace to Phil. He was their opposite in every way, yes, but they matched one another in one thing; That being, their love for Tommy.

It wasn't something Phil or Technoblade recognized, of course. When they saw Tubbo, they saw Tommy's killer. But then again, they had not been particularly kind to Tommy either. Tubbo had been the one to stick by his side for most of it, at least. Like I said, that wasn't something they even considered, but before one casts their judgement on either party, they should remember that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

The boy president was dressed in a different suit. Usually, he wore a navy one with shoulder epaulets and brass buttons, but this one was eerily familiar to everyone but Phil. This was the one he wore under Schlatt's administration. It hung off him funny, a bit too big for him, still, despite how he'd grown since then. Schlatt had always promised he would grow into it. It didn't seem that way.

In a way, it was more fitting for a funeral, everyone supposed. This suit represented misery to the highest degree. This suit made Tubbo look small, like the grieving child he was, rather than a capable young president the way the tailored one did. To Tubbo, though, his logic had been that it was black, the color of mourning. It was the only formal thing he owned in the color, so the Schlatt suit it was. There was no other particular thought put into it.

Everyone's eyes turned to the Arctic Empire at once and there was a stillness among them that there hadn't quite been before. No one tore their eyes away until Phil and Technoblade took their places in the second row, heads heavy and eyes downcast. Then, slowly, one by one, as if their fears had been alleviated for the time being, they turned to the matter at hand.

It was a miserable little thing.

It was a closed casket funeral. Apparently, his body was too gruesome to even look at. Phil couldn't tear his eyes away from the casket, knowing his son was in there, and that soon they would lower him into the ground and he wouldn't see him anymore.

They played L'manberg's national anthem for him and placed its flag over his casket. A mockery, Technoblade thought. How fucking dare they? Tommy was exiled. Banished from their nation. To have the audacity to treat him like one of theirs, it was sickening. He didn't even die on this land or for it. He died a whole sea away, reviled by them all. If anything, Phil and Technoblade should have been the ones to carry his body home and make funeral preparations, not  _ them. _

But he couldn't think that way, he knew. It was only right, that he'd be buried alongside Wilbur, in the nation he helped build. Wilbur would want that. Tommy would want that. It was hard, but he could say he wanted it, too, even if the more selfish part of his brain despised the thought.

Speaking of Wilbur, his ghost was sitting at Technoblade's side, occasionally asking, "... Who died?"

And then Technoblade would hesitantly answer, "Tommy."

Then the ghost would say, "Oh," and consider that for about ten minutes before apparently forgetting and asking again. Technoblade knew Ghostbur forgot things that brought him pain, but this was just excessive. Not only that, but it made Technoblade's brain hurt to even think about. Tommy died. He was in that casket. They were all telling stories about him. He died.

Eventually, the funeral proceedings landed on Quackity, who was set to give this big speech about Tommy and his contributions to society, but honestly? Quackity hated to say it, but this was about him being mature. Last funeral, Schlatt's, he had been a dickhead. Deservedly so. Schlatt was the biggest scourge upon L'manberg's history yet. But now it was up to him to speak at this depressed kid's funeral? Usually, he would back in on himself and try to cover any sadness with humor, but now was not usual. Tommy was his friend and a kid and a hero all at once and he didn't know what to say, really. But he knew he had to say something. 

"... I… Tommy was a kid. He had a lot of people who cared about him, even when he was," he swallowed. "Away. I think Tommy represents a lot about L'manberg, being at the nation's heart. He was young. He was determined. Strong. He also didn't always make the best decisions. I think… I think he'd want us all. To be together, and I think-"

Technoblade cut the stumbling speech short with a blunt, "I disagree."

Everyone turned to him with frightened eyes.

This is their fault.

They did this.

This is their fault.

They killed him.

They pushed him.

It was the government.

It was you.

They did this.

They killed your brother.

They killed Tommy.

The voices urged him onward, fueled by righteous fury.

"Techno," Phil whispered to him in an urgent tone, but he just stood from his seat, looking Quackity dead in the eye. You could hear the way his armor jingled and clanged underneath his cape. He looked so ominous in the dark blue color. Everyone wore colors of mourning today, a stark contrast against the white walls of the church, aside from Dream, still draped in that sickening lime green.

Quackity and Technoblade had never gotten along. Quackity was always a little too loud. A little too informal. He had looked at Technoblade with a fear that bordered on hatred. Technoblade hadn't minded, of course. His hatred was well-founded as far as he could tell and he hated him right back. Quackity had been, in his Pogtopia days, a government official. Technoblade was an anarchist. Then, he'd become a government official again, after Technoblade taught them all their initial lesson. Natural enemies. This uprooting of a solemn event, a gathering in remembrance of his little brother, wasn't about Quackity, though. It was always about Tommy, and from now on, it always would be.

"You're goin' on about what Tommy would want, but not about whose fault this is," Technoblade saw Tubbo flinch at that. Good. "Tommy is dead because-"

"It isn't  _ my  _ fault!" Quackity argued, looking aghast. "I had no say in Tommy's exile!" Everyone flinched at that one. Everyone had been careful not to say the word exile there. Like it was a curse and they'd have to wash their mouths out with soap if they said it.

Technoblade raised his voice, trying to keep it even and level. He couldn't lose it in front of these people. He couldn't. " _ My little brother  _ is  _ dead _ because of government. Both your negligence and senseless need to appease some  _ random guy _ -" he pointed at Dream, who barely moved an inch. "-murdered him! So you don't get to go on about what he would have wanted. You don't get to make him into some sort of symbol of your nation! Because he is not! He is a victim of your failures!"

"Oh, yeah, Technoblade?" Quackity asked, low and insidious. "Because the way I see it, it's you who's trying to make him into a symbol. He's not in the grave to prove government is bad. You don't speak for him either! He loved L'manberg! I know he did! He said so! He fucking  _ hated  _ you, though."

Technoblade felt like he'd been slapped, but it did not quell his righteous rage.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Ghostbur said, floating between them with his arms outstretched. "I don't know what's wrong, but there's no need to argue! Here, here, have some blue-"

The second Ghostbur floated over to Quackity with the blue, he promptly smacked it out of his hand with a, " _ I don't want your fucking blue, Ghostbur! _ "

Ghostbur stood there in shock for a moment before picking the material back up and floating over to Technoblade, who entirely ignored him.

"I'm not tryin' to make him into a symbol.  _ I  _ wasn't the one who killed him," Technoblade said, having trouble keeping himself from striking Quackity then and there. 

"But nobody killed him! He died because he was depressed, Technoblade! We can't be held accountable for- for-" Quackity began to choke up. Technoblade hadn't realized this back and forth was affecting him like this. "He was a  _ kid, _ man. Why can't you let him  _ rest _ ?! Why did you make it into a screaming match?! It's his funeral! It's supposed to be peaceful!  _ Fuck, _ man."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not willin' to let his killers miserate together about how much they cared about him! How do you expect me to sit idly by while everyone who mistreated him pretends he was some-some-'' Technoblade found his voice getting quieter, more wet. Technoblade didn't cry. He didn't, and especially not in front of people. But  _ fuck  _ if today wasn't trying him. "-sacrifice! He's not L'manberg! L'manberg turned on him and now he's dead!"

"Techno…" Phil whispered quietly.

"No!" he shouted. "Why am I the only one who gets that! Why are they all pretendin' they care! Why do they get to kill him and then act like he's a metaphor?!"

"Please, sit," Phil whispered, eyeing the casket out of the corner of his gaze. He really couldn't get it out of his mind that his baby was in there. That his corpse was too damaged to even look at. That he wouldn't see him again after this.

"I…" Technoblade looked at the crowd. Niki was shaking like a leaf, still crying. Tubbo kept his head down, attempting not to be seen. Everyone's eyes were frightened. (Aside from Dream, who remained disconcertingly at ease the entire time.) "I need some air."

Everyone stayed quiet as he went and for a few moments after he left, no one knew what to do. Should they continue? Should they lower him into the ground?

"... What I meant was," Quackity went on, more level-headed now. "Like it or not, Tommy was a hero to all of us. He… He was a testament to everything we've all worked for. And-and I suppose like Technoblade said, to how we've failed. Tommy was my friend. He would want us to look after each other. It's time to start anew. No more  _ fucking  _ abandoning each other."

He took his seat next to Tubbo and Tubbo rose from where he stood, preparing to give the speech that would put him in the ground.

"... If that's all, then," he said, voice weak. "I'd like to remind everyone that there is no fighting within the borders of the holy lands. And I'd like to play one of these," he produced both of Tommy's discs from his jacket pocket, ignoring how everyone gasped. "as we march him to his burial site."

With that, Eret, Fundy, Puffy, and Quackity picked the casket up on their shoulders, marching it out the door as the macabre parade followed, Tubbo playing the miserable melody of mellohi behind them. Phil didn't know when, but at some point Technoblade joined his side in the funeral procession, and everyone stood together one last time as Tommy was lowered into the ground. Phil felt like he wanted to throw himself in there after him and demand to be buried, too, but he felt like that would be horribly cliche. His children had inherited their flair for the dramatic from him, but he felt like that would be a bit much, even for him and even for all the terrible sadness he felt.

"Rest easy, Vice President Tommyinnit," he said softly to the gravestone. "I'll come visit you soon."

He hated how it sounded because he still remembered that night. He had finally worked up the courage to go see him. But when he arrived, everything was gone. He called for his friend but received no response besides a particularly strong wind. "Tommy…?!"

He came to see a jukebox beside what looked to be some sort of tarp, now terribly torn and hanging limply in a ditch that seemed fresh. He then rushed over to a big crater accompanied by several logs caught on fire and splintered. Then, in the distance, he saw it. A huge tower stretching into the sky, freshly built.

He rushed over to it with one thought on his mind: Surely not.

He caught a glimpse of a crumpled figure at the base of the tower. His blood ran cold.

Surely not.

It was, in fact, Tommy, battered in a way Tubbo had never seen. His neck was at a harsh angle and his spine bent in a way Tubbo was sure wasn't possible. He held something in one hand but the world was spinning too much by then for him to check what it was.

"... Surely not."

Then he passed out.

Those next days were a blur of informing people of the death and preparing his funeral. He was  _ getting  _ a funeral, dammit, and this one wouldn't be made into a joke like Schlatt's. Tubbo didn't sleep. Didn't work. Didn't think of anything but Tommy. Tommy's twisted corpse. Tommy's face of disbelief as he called for his removal. Tommy's laugh when times were simpler. Sitting on the bench with Tommy to feel calm for those rare moments on the SMP.

Tubbo tried not to let the weakness in his knees show as he walked from the burial site. He couldn't show weakness right now, to his people, and to his enemies. It wasn't becoming of a president. Still, a secret part of his heart told him his presidency didn't matter at all and would never matter again. He'd already failed the one person who mattered.

As the crowd began to thin, Technoblade kneeled and said a small prayer. It wasn't anything special. He prayed for him to find peace among the many who died warrior's deaths and for him to be at peace in the afterlife. The two stayed until the only people left were themselves and the ghost of the other result of their many failings as a family, Ghostbur. A ditzy smile crossed his face when they made eye contact as he scratched the back of his neck.

"I ought to know who's in this grave, but I just can't remember," Ghostbur admitted sheepishly. "I know you told me, Techno. Sorry I forgot."

"That's okay, Ghostbur," Technoblade sighed, shifting from foot to foot anxiously. "... You know, that's where your body is buried. Right there."

He pointed a few feet away from where Ghostbur hovered. It was an unremarkable grave, barely marked, hastily made. They couldn't leave Wilbur to rot, of course, but no one was itching to give Wilbur a big funeral after he blew up the entire nation. Tommy had made the gravestone, too, if he hadn't been mistaken. It simply read, "Wilbur Soot, beloved brother, father, son, and president."

Ghostbur looked at it awkwardly.

"I didn't know they ever gave me a proper grave. I figured they just… I don't know," Ghostbur shrugged.

"Left you to rot in your little room?" Technoblade articulated. "I wouldn't put it past 'em, that lousy brood."

Phil elbowed him softly in the side, signaled him to pipe down. Technoblade felt anger surge up inside him at that, but he restrained himself. Phil was only looking out for him, after all. Ghostbur, on the other hand, was looking especially meek now. The grave wasn't anything special, really. It was just a rock on top of a patch of uneven grass, but it was still his grave. He still had the distinct feeling he shouldn't have been seeing it, even if it felt good to know it existed.

"... I should go," the ghost said quietly, turning to Phil and Technoblade with a vacant smile.

"Why don't you come up to our house for a while, Wil," Phil offered. "It'd be nice to have you there."

"Really?! I can stay there for a while?!" Ghostbur asked, seemingly thrilled.

"Sure," Technoblade agreed. "Beats leaving you here."

"Oh, it'll be so much fun to be together again! Why don't we pick up Tommy, too?" he asked. "We were talking about all meeting up with one another, what, three days ago? It really will be a family reunion!"

Phil and Technoblade share a grim look as Ghostbur smiles obliviously. They both knew it had been much longer than three days ago that Ghostbur had last seen Tommy. And even worse, that they wouldn't be seeing him again.

"Okay, Wilbur," Techno rumbled sympathetically, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him from the graves, not seeing the way Ghostbur frowned at the use of the name he hated.

They catch Dream at the docks, fumbling with his own boat. Truthfully, Technoblade didn't know where Dream lived and had never bothered to ask. He was an enigma, sure, but also just a really weird guy. He always made Technoblade uncomfortable, but Phil saw no need to keep his distance.

"Having trouble?" Phil asked, not unfriendly.

"Er, no, just packing," Dream replied, not turning his head to face Phil.

"Oh, you really are packing an awful lot," Phil commented, watching Technoblade untether their little boat from the dock and Ghostbur climb inside. "Headed somewhere?"

Dream laughed sourly, "Haha, yeah, I guess you could say that. I need to get away from it all for a moment and study, so I need some peace and quiet to do it."

"Need any help packing?" he asked, watching him struggle to compact the boxes into the tight space of his small boat's storage bay.

"Actually," Dream said. "If it isn't too much trouble."

Phil ignored the way Technoblade huffed from their own boat and got busy helping Dream.

Dream had been Tommy's friend, he thought, in his last moments. He knew they had a checkered past, but Tommy clearly forgave him. He had been there with them to prepare the party, after all. It was nice to know someone was a friend to him, even if it wasn't enough to stop him from doing anything drastic. It was nice to think that perhaps Tommy wasn't as lonely as he feared. He didn't miss the way his hands shook with grief when Phil came near. Poor kid was barely holding it together.

(What Phil didn't know, of course, was that the shaking was from fear, not grief. It's not every day that the child you drove to death's father shows up to help you with your luggage, is it? He'd been trying to leave quickly, if just to avoid getting his shit rocked.)

"So," Phil began. "What is it you're studying, mate?"

"Magic," Dream said, a bit too quickly for Phil's liking. Dream was never a fantastic liar, as far as anyone could tell, but it wasn't Phil's place to pry. If he didn't want to tell him, he didn't have to. "Potions. And animals. And magic."

"Potions and animals, huh?" he asked. "That sounds nice. You know they make potions for homesickness? I got one of them on my travels once, and never felt freer. Has a bad crash, though."

"Hm, well," Dream began. "There's nothing I need less than a homesickness potion."

"What, you don't have a home?"

He huffed irritably, "No, I have a home, of course. I'm just not the sentimental type."

"... Were you and Tommy close?" Phil asked, softer so his sons wouldn't hear it. Dream's hands stuttered in their reach to grab his next box, not expecting the topic shift. Then he continued and hauled the box into the cubby.

"A fair bit, yes," Dream said. "He was… a funny kid. I visited him a lot."

"Yes, well," Phil thought aloud. "I just wondered if you'd speak at the funeral, but you didn't say a word."

"Truth be told, Phil," he said, swiftly. "I'm grieving, I suppose. I was Tommy's best friend."

Phil stayed quiet at that for a few moments. Strangely, for whatever reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Dream was close to Tommy at all. Best friends? Dream and Tommy were best friends? He knew they must have been friends, yes. He knew Dream was with him often after his exile. But something about the way he behaved made him seem uncaring. Maybe it was the bright green he wore to the funeral. Everyone else was in mourning colors and he was not. He also sat in the back. Maybe it was the way his mask smiled despite the sadness of the day, never giving into any form of grief, even as Phil began to trace the cracks that ran up its side with his eyes. Was it always cracked like that?

A cough, "Er, this should be the last of my luggage. I'll be leaving now."

Phil blinked, suddenly brought back to reality. Had he been staring? He hadn't meant to, but no wonder the young man seemed so unsettled. He wasn't trying to be unsettling, of course, and was quick to say, "Dream, before you go…"

"Hm?" he was already climbing inside the boat.

"If you ever need any help, you come to us," Phil said. "I'm not sure if there's anything we can provide that you can't get on your own, but… you were with Tommy in his last days and I can't even begin to say how much I appreciate it. Thank you. You're a good lad."

"I'll keep that in mind," Dream said, though something in his posture was much droopier than before. Dream was a gangly thing, noodly in the way only people who spent a lot of time running were, but it would take nothing short of a fool to discount him as weak. You could tell that by the tears and soot on his clothing, or the way he always stood with a lazy nonchalance, or how he never went anywhere without a sword. He told a big story in his demeanor, one you couldn't see in his eyes or expression. It was a different way of observing people, he supposed. He was sure by looking at himself in the mirror, he could find another story. But no one had to do that, in Phil's case. They could just look him in the eyes and see exactly what he was.

"Goodbye, Dream," Phil said, waving at him as he took his oars and set off into the distance.

"Goodbye, old man," Dream replied, the bastard.

Once he was a fair way away, he turned to his own boat that contained his own sons. To his amusement, Technoblade and Wilbur were playing patty cake like they so often did when they were young. He chuckled to himself, but it wasn't as bright as usual. He had managed to keep up appearances in front of Dream, but he knew he didn't have to do that in front of his family. They wouldn't want him to.

Suddenly, there was a shout.

"Mr. Minecraft!" Phil turned his head and caught a glimpse of a long figure hurtling itself down one of L'manberg's hills and towards the docks. "Mr. Minecraft, are you leaving?!"

He saw Technoblade tense from the corner of his eye, so he shouted back, "Yeah, mate! What do you want?"

"Oh! Uhh," when he was a little closer, Phil recognized the figure a bit better. It was that hybrid boy, the enderman. He began to fumble with something in his suit jacket and suddenly teleported about twenty places closer. He stumbled for a moment and stood still, as if teleporting like that made him dizzy, and then kept running.

When he was right in front of him, he pulled out two well-kept discs. Cat and Mellohi.

"The president wanted me to give you these discs, I guess," he explained. "I almost didn't catch you!"

Phil's mouth pulled into a grim line, "... Why does Tubbo even have these?"

"Oh, er, I think Tommy gave them to him!" the hybrid said.

"He gave him one, but not the other. How did he get both?"

Like Dream, the hybrid also awkwardly towered over Phil. He wasn't built like Dream, though. He more resembled Wilbur in the way that he was just too lanky to know what to do with his limbs back when he was young. Wilbur had grown into his, of course, but as far as Phil knew, endermen stayed clumsy their whole lives. He wouldn't be surprised if this kid did, too.

"I'm just the messenger," the hybrid said. "Are… are you going to take them?"

Technoblade scoffed something behind him, but he didn't quite pick it up. Ghostbur made a worried hum, but nothing else was said.

"Of course. Thank you, er," he trailed off.

"Ranboo," the enderman said and stuck out his hand for a shake.

"Ranboo," Phil replied, shaking his hand back. "Thank you, Ranboo. We'll… we'll keep them safe."

"No problem!" he said. "I should probably get back now. There's apparently a meeting happening this evening and I'm the minuteman, so…"

"I got you," Phil said. "Have a good one, mate."

The enderman took a deep breath and then teleported about thirty feet away and then took off up the hill again.

Phil took a look at each disc, observing them. They weren't special discs. They weren't even rare. Both were black, with Mellohi having a purple and white striped center and Cat being green. Tommy loved these damn things. He fought wars for them. He only gave them up for something so powerful as the independence of an entire nation. He frowned at the little things, mere trinkets in comparison to Tommy's life. How much of himself had he given up to secure these things?

"Let's head out," Phil mumbled. Technoblade made a quiet, grievous snorting sound as he picked up each oar.

It took two hours to row across the whole sea. It would take another to get to their home. But they had to pass Logstedshire to do so. When they had passed before, it was in a state of disrepair just like everyone said it had been. Soot littered the ground and it filled the skies, giving the air a putrid smell that mixed painfully with the salty air from the sea.

Ghostbur stiffened as soon as they arrived and Phil didn't know why the little movement caught his eye, but something was clearly off with his middle son. He wore a confused expression that soon turned to terror as they arrived on the shore. He got up off the boat immediately and Phil and Technoblade were quick to follow him.

He floated quickly into the center of Logstedshire, calling, "Tommy! Hello?! Tommy!"

Phil quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, "Son, T-"

"Don't you fucking touch me!" he flickered dangerously, and Phil almost caught sight of a long jacket hanging over his shoulders. For just a moment. It made him question whether he'd really seen it at all or if he'd just imagined it when he saw his pained expression. "Where is Tommy?!"

"Tommy's dead, Ghostbur," Phil whispered, wondering if he'd remember this time, seeing it right in front of him.

"But, but," Ghostbur began to cry. When he cried, his tears came out a deep blue. Phil didn't know why, but he knew the scar under Ghostbur's sweater that he'd shown him once was the same blue. "But I was just with him! I was only gone for a little bit! I… He asked me! He wanted me to be here! He said to me! I, I…!"

"Listen, mate, it wasn't your fault," Phil said.

" _ Yes it was! _ " he shouted, loud enough to shock Phil into silence. " _ He told me! He asked me to look after him in exile! I told him I would follow him like-like  _ he  _ did! I told him he could pretend I was Wilbur and that I'd look after him! _ "

Phil was too stunned at the outburst to speak, so instead Technoblade said, "It wasn't your fault, Ghostbur, I mean that-"

" _ Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! _ "

"It was the government, Ghostbur! It wasn't your fault! They did this to him! You couldn't have stopped it. You…" his tongue grew tired. He wasn't sure where this level of exhaustion was coming from, but he was sure it'd been a tiring day. He'd love nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep for another month.

Ghostbur looked pathetic, desperately trying to wipe the tears from his face. "You really think?"

"I know," Technoblade said lowly. "They were the ones to exile him. They knew this was a death sentence. They knew, and they still did it. No one is to blame but the institution of government, I promise."

"If… If… If Tommy comes back as a ghost," Ghostbur muttered wetly. "He can just tell us what happened, right? Who did this?"

Technoblade quieted at this, suddenly thinking about the implication. Tommy  _ could  _ come back as a ghost. Wilbur had done it. It was definitely possible. So why hadn't he yet? Or maybe he already had, and he just hadn't shown himself to them yet. Maybe his ghost was in L'manberg as they spoke. He felt the sudden urge to get back in the boat and check, but he knew he was being silly and impulsive.

"A ghost…" Phil said, a small smile gracing his face as his mind followed a similar path. "Yeah, mate, if he comes back as a ghost, we can ask him. For… for now, let's just get home. Before it gets too dark."

"Okay," Ghostbur sniffled sadly.

They began the trek back home, hearts heavy.

It was snowing in the arctic, but Technoblade kept his brother safe by lending him his cloak. Phil didn't like knowing there was a potential for his son's spirit to melt away and disappear, mostly because he didn't know what happened to him after. He supposed they'd just better be careful.

"Oh! Oh!" Ghostbur began, looking around at the bit of the forest they were currently in. "I've been here before!"

Technoblade tilted his head, "... When?"

"I was taking a walk here," Ghostbur replied simply. "I… You know, Phil? I think I'm still upset. I don't feel much better, even if Tommy can be a ghost. Because won't he be like me?"

"Happy?" Technoblade asked.

"No," Ghostbur shook his head. "Broken."

Technoblade turned his gaze at that, frowning quietly to himself.

"I don't want Tommy to be fucked up like I am," he said. "And, and, I don't know if it's a ghost thing or a me thing, but I don't want him to be forgetful or to get headaches whenever someone brings up something even a little upsetting, or, or- and, Phil, I don't want Tommy to forget about me, or you, or Techno! And I want Tommy to be happy like Technoblade said, yes, but I also want him to be all there!"

"So you don't want him to come back?" Phil asked.

"No! No, I didn't say that! I just… don't want him to have to suffer at all," Ghostbur muttered. "I just… don't know what I want."

“No point talkin' about it," Technoblade said. "He either comes back or he doesn't. Nothin' we can do either way.”

Ghostbur cringed to himself and nodded along.

When they arrived at the house, it was dark already. They didn’t bother with dinner, even though they all agreed they really ought to. Instead, they just headed to bed and tried their best not to let the thoughts of Tommy’s passing consume them. But Phil woke in the middle of the night to a stream of light hitting him directly in the eyes from the hallway. He got up groggily and trudged into the hallway. Standing there was a sleepy Technoblade with a peppy Ghostbur floating beside him, chattering away pleasantly. Being a ghost, he didn’t really need to sleep, so Phil was sure he was grateful for the company in the nighttime.

Technoblade looked startled to see Phil up and looked at him warily.

“Why’d you turn the light on, mate? What’s everyone doing up?” he asked.

“Oh, we just thought- I just thought,” he stammered, turning red. “Well, I had this nightmare, see, that-”

“If Tommy comes back as a ghost, Techno wanted to make sure he found his way home alright in the dark!” Ghostbur chirped.

“Oh,” Phil said, suddenly feeling very emotional. Usually, he’d chalk it all up to being tired, but this just reminded him that the youngest of his three sons was gone. Technoblade and Ghostbur were adults, but seeing this brought him back to when they were all small and carefree. He didn’t want to cry in front of them, and he wouldn’t. He was supposed to be the strong one, after all. Truthfully, though, he sort of knew they wouldn’t judge him if he did.

“It’s just,” Technoblade said, turning his head awkwardly to the side. “I had this dream that Tommy was lost in the snow and that, that he was alive. And he was right in the front yard, but he couldn’t see the house because it was dark and, well, Phil, you know I’ve always been very intuitive, so I just figured it’d be wise to, well, you know.”

“Leave a light on for him,” Phil said, smiling softly.

“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just so he knows where we are.”

“... Okay, Technoblade,” Phil conceded, so not to embarrass him further. “I’m off to bed. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Technoblade said, still embarrassed.

“Goodnight!” Ghostbur repeated.

Separately, in a world that was not quite his own, Tommy was struggling to figure out which way to go. On one hand, there was a darker space, cool and quiet, where Tommy could barely make out two silhouettes, not paying him any mind. On the other, there was the lighter side, all noise and wailing and oddly hot. He didn’t mind either side, really. The dark one was scary in its own way, even though Tommy thought it was peaceful and did, in fact, want peace, but the other side scared him, too. Why was it so loud? The heat reminded him of the nether, and he hated the nether. He didn’t know why, though. Had he spent a lot of time in the nether? Where was he?

It was hard to move. He struggled against the force of this place, held still by some invisible pressure. It was like swimming in jello. Not impossible, but not easy. He was moving at a snail’s pace, which was pretty fucking annoying. Even then, he didn’t know which way he wanted to go, and for some strange reason, neither didn’t feel like an option. Not really. Besides, who’d want to stay in neither anyway?

On the lighter side, after what felt like hours, he thought he heard a voice. It was faint, and drowned in the several other sounds of that side, but it was a song. A song he knew, definitely, but he couldn’t make out the lyrics. Something about a place? Men? Tyranny?

“ …real, you needn’t fret, with Wilbur, Tommy, Tu…” the voice crooned softly. Was that Quackity? (Who was Quackity again?) Why was Quackity there? He swore he knew that song, just barely.

He swam through the pressure with all his might, watching as the quiet darkness grew fainter and fainter, before pushing through the light side completely, and waking up on the cold, wet earth.

He gasped for air, but none filled his lungs. It didn't actually matter, of course. There was no need to breathe anymore. He sat up and stared at his translucent form. He… He’d died. He’d really done it! He died! And it was all…!

Bad memories and good memories warred in his mind, making him shiver violently. It was nighttime now, but almost morning. He was in Logstedshire, and what was burning when he jumped had long since smouldered out. How long had it been? Where was his body? He’d been so sure at the time that nobody would find it. Had it just rotted away?

Eventually the memories cleared, leaving him with bits and pieces, floating lazily in his mind. He felt like he was on a cloud, in a way, but a really fucked up cloud that eventually gave way to rain and dropped you 60,000 feet onto the cold, hard ground. He was a ghost, that much was clear, but what was happening? When he tried to stand, he felt a piece of cold metal in his hand. Like it was stuck there, a little compass labelled “Your Tubbo” was firmly embedded into his palm, and no matter how he shook it, it did not move from his palm. What was this weird thing? What the fuck was a Tubbo? Whatever it was, he was  _ not  _ going that way. Something in his chest told him he couldn’t. Just  _ couldn't. _

There was a boat docked at Logstedshire. Maybe it was Dream’s. And as soon as the thought of that bad, bad man crossed his mind, terrible, horrible memories played through his head. Memories of Dream placing a single stick of dynamite on the ground and blowing up his entire nation the first time. Memories of Dream shooting him through the chest with an arrow. Memories of Dream lending Wilbur TNT to blow up his home. Memories of Dream keeping him here, in this place, in Logstedshire, for whatever reason. Memories of Dream making him blow up all of his personal possessions everyday. Memories of Dream telling him he wasn’t a good friend. Memories of Dream blowing this place up. Memories of everything Dream had ever said to him playing in his mind as he stood atop the pillar he’d made, daring to let himself fall. Tommy let out a small scream of anguish, and didn’t like the way it echoed like he was only a foggy transmission of the real Tommy.

What was Logstedshire, exactly? He knew it was home, but he also knew it wasn’t supposed to be. Why was he there, and now that he was a ghost, could he leave?

He supposed there was only one way to find out, and took a step through the nether portal, one step further from everyone who’d ever loved (and hurt) him. Not that he knew that, of course.


	2. Little Minnow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That brings us to this morning, where Tubbo was standing tall and firm. It was a clear act, of course. No one recovers that quickly. Quackity just saw the kid last night, beaten down and bruised by the weight of the world around him. Everyone else sort of figured, too, that things weren't going as well as he'd have you believe. How could it? They'd just hosted their second ever funeral the day before. And this time, it was for someone people actually liked. Someone people rallied around, not against.

The previous night, the night of Tommy's funeral, Tubbo had scheduled a meeting. It was an important one. They were going over a lot of laws that needed to be instated and repealed. Strangely, though, Tubbo hadn't shown. It just wasn't like him, and after about a half hour of stalling, Quackity reluctantly took up the mantle in his place.

Afterwards, though, Quackity made his way to Tubbo's home, shouting for him the whole way. His blood began pumping when he got no response. Something was wrong, and he wasn't sure what, but it was there, clear as day.

"Tubbo…?!" he shouted. "Tubbo?!"

Nothing. The house was dead silent. Nothing was astray. Then, when he happened upon his bathroom door, he realized it was closed. He knocked politely, despite having technically broken into the house.

"... I'm in here," came the boy's muffled voice from inside. Something sounded wrong. His voice was all strained and rough.

Quackity replied, "... Can I come in?"

No response.

"... I'm coming in...!"

But still nothing. With a reluctant sigh, he grabbed the door handle and pulled. It was pitch black inside, which would have been unsettling and haunted as hell if he wasn't able to make out the sheen of Tubbo's horns in the moonlight pouring in from the window.

"Damn, bitch, you live like this?" he joked, awkwardly feeling the wall for the light switch. Tubbo didn't move a muscle, and Quackity hadn't felt this unsettled in ages. Not since he asked Technoblade, when he first came here, to turn and face him like a man, and Technoblade had turned extremely slowly, watching Quackity with a dark gaze that had him near pissing himself.

When he finally found the switch, he flicked it on and watched the young president wince and grumble to himself. He was laying on the floor, head leaning on the toilet bowl in a way that couldn't have been comfortable. In one hand was a compass.  _ The  _ compass, Quackity realized, and the points inside were spinning wildly, indicating the target was extremely close by. It reminded him, in a way he didn't quite like to think about, of Schlatt. He had come into the White House far too many times to find Schlatt passed out drunk in the bathroom, and though Tubbo wasn't drunk, it felt much the same. The misery and the uselessness that came of it.

Tubbo would hate the comparison if he were able to hear it. Because he was thinking something similar. He was thinking about how he had  _ told  _ Tommy he wouldn't become the next Schlatt so long as he wasn't the next Wilbur. He had promised him. And in a strange twist of fate, they both had become their predecessors in the most pathetic way. Tubbo had Tommy exiled, like Schlatt had done to Wilbur, and Tommy killed himself, like Wilbur himself had done. Granted, though, Tommy didn't quite go out with a bang like Wilbur did, but that almost made it worse. After everything that had happened, maybe Tommy deserved to shout and burn and destroy. Maybe he deserved it. After all, Tubbo had been the one to break his promise first. Tubbo had been the one to lie. It was Tubbo's fault Tommy had died.

He imagined with a grimace how Wilbur felt the months leading up to November 16th. Loneliness was a big part of why Wilbur went mad, wasn't it? Had Tommy felt just as alone? Just as betrayed? Wilbur had proclaimed that his own son, the one Tubbo  _ knew _ he loved with all his heart, was dead to him. If he had come to Tommy, would he have thought the same thing? The answer was no, of course, but Tubbo couldn't possibly know that. No, he only knew he had inadvertently solidified their places in history. They were doomed to repeat themselves. They could never break the chain.

"Christ, kid," Quackity groaned to himself. "Are you okay? The fuck is going on?"

"... Did Ranboo get Phil the discs?"

"Yeah, but where the hell were you?" Quackity asked. "We waited forever before we realized you weren't coming! Hell, you scheduled this meeting! You told me you could handle it being the same day!"

"Threw up," Tubbo explained. "I think… I think I'm a shitty person. And a shitty president."

Quackity pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "No. You're not a shitty anything. You're the best president L'manberg's ever had and a damn good kid! Come on, talk to me, buddy. What's up?"

"... Quackity, you're a shapeshifter, right?"

Quackity stiffened.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

It was true. He was a shapeshifter. He had been since birth. He wasn't a very good one, of course, but that was because he hadn't cared to be. He had shapeshifted plenty before. Once, into Wilbur, back when Tommy was still alive. Of course, Tommy had screamed and demanded he cut that shit out right away, but it was a shitty attempt at Wilbur. He never got a great look at him before he died. He knew the fundamentals, got it mostly right, but when Quackity did it again in the mirror, he saw how the eyes were wrong and the nose was too short and the hair wasn't the right shade of brown. He looked like himself, still, in an odd way. He'd also been Mexican Dream, but being Mexican Dream required so little effort he could probably do it in his sleep. How hard was creating a smiling mask with the Mexican flag superimposed onto it, really? He had done plenty of shapeshifting acts in the past as well. He had made himself bald plenty and had tried to make himself taller, though it never stuck. Hell, even the soft yellow duck wings on his back were mere affectation. But still, he didn't know what Tubbo wanted with this information.

"... Nothing, I guess," Tubbo yawned. "Just asking."

With a little bit of hesitance, Quackity sat on the edge of the tub, across from Tubbo.

"So, this is about Tommy, right?" he said, running a hand down his face. "Because I promise you that you're thinking about this the wrong way. Look, kid, I'll do anything to make you feel better, but please get your head off the toilet seat. That shit's nasty."

Tubbo sat up with a wince and a dizzy spell.

"Big Q," he started. "I look like a fucking mess, huh? I promise I'm okay and that I'll be strong for everyone. I'm sorry I missed the meeting today. I just-" a sigh. "I just can't stop thinking about it. I was sort of in a haze after I found his body. It was just… a bad dream. But then, suddenly, the bubble popped and it made me feel sick to know that I sentenced him to his death. He was my best friend. We were like brothers."

"I know. Tommy was the first one to treat me kindly when I got here, technically, even though we became enemies right after. I think about it, too. He was such a fucking star. All bright, and clever, and  _ noisy, _ " he chuckled weakly. "He wasn't a quitter. I think he'd want us all to take care of each other, you know. So, I'll look after you, okay? I've got your back. I can't imagine how terribly this must hurt you."

"At the funeral, what Technoblade was saying," Tubbo mumbled. "About how we don't know anything about Tommy. How we don't deserve to feel sad when we hurt him. How we're using him as a political pawn. Do you think that's true?"

Quackity laughed incredulously, "Kid! You heard me fight him tooth and nail earlier! You know I don't think it's true! You listen here, Technoblade is a goddamn hypocrite and he knows it."

"But we do bad things sometimes, the government," Tubbo sniffled. "We're putting up propaganda about him and we locked Phil in his house and we exiled Tommy."

"Yeah, but we're not the only ones who have hurt people," Quackity explained, then huffed. "Look, Tubbo, in all honesty? I couldn't give less of a fuck about the withers. I just want to display a united front out there. But when he set those withers on us, do you think he was right? Forcing his ideals on us all, a lone soldier, because he thought we were _wrong_. Hurting us, you, even his _own_ _family_."

Tubbo averted his gaze.

"Look, I'm just saying I wouldn't trust him as the authority on Tommy. He told the kid to die like a hero not that long ago. Sounds like everything's come to fruition perfectly for him."

"Think he wanted this? Wanted Tommy dead?" Tubbo asked, drawing his face into a sour expression.

"No, of course not. No one wanted that," Quackity clarified. "But blaming us is really just a scapegoat. Or, a part of this game he's playing. Maybe he really believes what he's saying, but Tubbo, kid, I promise you. He is wrong."

"... Thanks for coming to find me, Big Q. I promise I'll be better from here on out," Tubbo said, smiling weakly.

Quackity couldn't stop frowning. Internally, he wanted to scoop this kid in his arms and tell him he didn't need to rush his mourning process, but he couldn't do either of those things because, A.) Tubbo looked gross after a day spent hunched over the toilet bowl, and B.) He sort of did have to rush his mourning process, objectively speaking. He was the president, after all, and he needed to be strong for their country. He was only a kid, but he carried the weight of their world on his shoulders, and that wasn't something Quackity could discount.

Instead he just said, "Hey, that's what vice presidents are for. Come on now. It's past your bedtime."

Quackity had always been that way, even when Tubbo was just the secretary of state. He was a comfort, admittedly, during Schlatt's presidency. He'd always seemed to know when to be mature, even if he didn't know exactly how to help. He'd also always treated Tubbo with a mix of respect as a peer and softness because Tubbo was a kid. Quackity wasn't even that much older than him. He was just one of very few people around him who understood the severity of their positions while still being a stable force in his life. They'd fought, yes, but Quackity was his vice president now, on top of being an old friend. He appreciated him.

Quackity went home, Tubbo went to bed, and then he cried all night, but he understood he couldn't pussyfoot around his responsibilities anymore. Tommy should have been president, all things considered. Tubbo should have been the one exiled right now, except that Tommy had promised he would never have done that to him. He should have been president. He had always wanted it. Wilbur appointed him first. But he had given it up in pursuit of his discs. Christ, why hadn't Tubbo helped him with that? 

He supposed it was because the discs were shit anyway. They tore everything apart and always had. Nevermind the time Tommy had dueled Dream for L'manberg, lost, and gave up his most prized possessions to secure their independence anyway. He felt conflicted feelings muddle up in his stomach. Those discs had won them L'manberg. Tommy had won them L'manberg. On one hand, why, why, why had he exiled him? Why did he think that was fair? A founding father, a longtime leader, exiled by the country he had fought so hard to protect, just like Technoblade's story. But on the other hand, those discs had cost Tommy his second life. He couldn't bear to hold the cursed things. That was why he had given them away so quickly after receiving them.

Tommy was always caught up in personal possessions, really.

"The only thing he wants is the one thing I care about," he'd said once, impulsively, and Tubbo hummed coldly in response because, in his defense, Tommy was obviously being a dick.

"The  _ one thing  _ you care about," he echoed.

"Well," he retconned. "Not the  _ one  _ thing." But he hadn't looked at him as he said it.

Speaking of personal possessions, ones with great sentimental value, Tommy and Tubbo took care of their compasses in vastly different ways, though Tubbo didn't know that, of course. Tubbo had kept his on him all the time. He never put the thing down, anxiously tracking the way the points inside moved, fixed in one direction for all eternity. Of course, it had broken within a matter of weeks in a freak accident. The lodestone survived, so he kept it in his pocket, but it was effectively useless now. Tubbo couldn't help how empty his hand felt. Tommy, to the contrary, kept his hidden in his ender chest almost the entire time he had it. Very rarely did he take it out because he, by now, understood the importance of keeping things like that safe. But there had been a time he grew frustrated and almost threw it into the lava lake, only barely coaxed out of it by Dream. He had held it as he died, glanced at it once before letting himself fall. It was miraculously okay, but he hadn't been. The compass survived. Sure, it was bent in an odd way and the place where the limestone was lodged in it was a little loose, but it wasn't career-ending. The compass would have still had use, if Tubbo, the owner of the matching half, wasn't its keeper.

Now the busted compass was all Tubbo had of him. And it meant something to Tommy, he could tell, and his side of the matching pair had meant something to him, too, so he kept it in his hand as he slept, determined not to let it be destroyed like his had been. It was a useless compass, of course, because it only pointed to him. But he liked to imagine Tommy was the one holding it, not him, and that they were side by side again. It felt unnatural to be separated and even more unnatural to know he'd never see him again.

He cried himself to sleep that night, but he knew he needed it. He had to steel himself. It was time to be president again. He couldn't grieve anymore.

Telling himself that didn't make it any easier.

That brings us to this morning, where Tubbo was standing tall and firm. It was a clear act, of course. No one recovers that quickly. Quackity just saw the kid last night, beaten down and bruised by the weight of the world around him. Everyone else sort of figured, too, that things weren't going as well as he'd have you believe. How could it? They'd just hosted their second ever funeral the day before. And this time, it was for someone people actually liked. Someone people rallied around, not against.

Tubbo kept the compass on a loop on his belt. It hung there, occasionally clinking against the little chains that kept it there. Though Tubbo was sure it was a bad idea, carrying it around everywhere, he couldn't part with it. The idea gave him anxiety and made him feel sick.

Niki was the one to first urge them to let the kid have a break. He'd stopped by the bakery and he'd just looked so… despondent. Glassy eyes, slightly wrinkled clothing, monotonous voice. Tubbo was never super expressive when he was in "president mode," of course. That chatter and happiness was reserved for when Tommy told a joke or demanded they go off to mine more iron or when the both of them got into mischief. But now, with Tubbo frowning sadly at the bagel he'd bought, she felt the need to reach out.

She and Tubbo were friends, yes, but she was unsure how to feel about Tommy. He'd gotten himself exiled and he deserved it, yes, but it was hard to pin blame on someone you know wasn't well, which Tommy decidedly wasn't. Unlike some of the others, she didn't recognize the weight that was put on the children. She only recognized that Tommy was a menace and a liar, but she didn't want him  _ dead. _ That was too much. Too much. It was enough to bring her to tears because, all things considered, Tommy was her friend. He was by her side in Pogtopia and he was Wilbur's brother. But he was also a little dickhead.

Strangely, though, she had this bad feeling about it all.

Now, when I say a bad feeling, I don't mean bad in the same way I mean with the others. I mean that Niki was finding his death a little…  _ convenient? _ She wasn't going to bring it up. Heavens, no. Because she didn't know who his death was convenient  _ for, _ exactly. Maybe Dream? Or Technoblade? Or George? Or some member of the cabinet? It just felt a little planned, somehow, and she didn't get why. Whatever the case, just with one glance at Tubbo, she could tell he was not the mastermind behind all this. At that moment, he was just her friend.

Quackity found his way into the bakery, eventually, and quickly hurried over to the boy.

"Tubbo! Come on, we're supposed to be talking tariffs with Sam and Bad in less than twenty minutes!" he exclaimed, lightly tugging his arm.

"Is that today?" Tubbo asked, quickly standing from his table and rushing over to the counter to pay. Niki accepted the money, watching Quackity warily through the corner of her eye.

"Lots of business to be done?" she asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Quackity answered. "Between you and me, Bad is a pussy and he'll give in. But this new "egg" business has everyone really stressed out."

"I can imagine," she agreed. "Things have been strange over there. What will you do?"

"That's what we're hoping to figure out after this meeting," he explained, nudging Tubbo lightly. "Right, Tubbo?"

"Mhm," Tubbo said. "Then, tomorrow, we're having another cabinet meeting. 's all so exhausting."

"Then you should all take a break," she said kindly. "I mean it. Nothing can get done if you're still grieving."

"No time," Quackity and Tubbo said at once.

"Why not?" she asked. "Tubbo, we're friends. I'm worried about you. It's only fair to get some rest after… everything that happened."

"I can't. Dream is gone, so dealing with the SMP is more difficult, even if Eret is in charge… Small blessings. And the Badlands are causing us problems now. Not to mention Technoblade and his merry band of terrorists up in the tundra, and that we have to better support El Rapids now that Dream is gone."

"You shouldn't have to handle all that alone," she said urgently.

Quackity looked away sadly and Tubbo just smiled pleasantly, only to placate her, "Don't worry, Niki. I'm a good president. I can take care of myself and L'manberg both. Thanks for everything!"

They hurried out of the bakery, off to that meeting with the Badlands. She frowned to herself, feeling like there was more she could have said. She thought, maybe, Quackity could have been suspicious. The way he spoke on Tubbo's behalf set off alarms in her head, but she wasn't sure how to approach that issue. Besides, she didn't even know what Quackity would have had to gain from Tubbo's weakness or Tommy's absence. 

You could call her irrational if you want, but she thought Tommy was murdered. Or, at the very least, that his death wasn't an accident or of his own volition. Something was up. She just hoped  _ she _ wouldn't have to be the one to get to the bottom of it.

And on the other side of the sea, a whole dimension away, a ghost fluttered through the nether.

Tommy had been here many times. He'd looked at these pits, these great heights, and these monsters. And he had longed for peace, one way or another. He had hoped the nether would bring him solace. That was why he had almost taken a tumble off the ledge so many times. That was why he almost chucked this interesting (and slightly disturbing) compass stuck to his hand off the ledge that one time. That was why he was so mad at Dream for stopping him. For solace.

_ Dream. _ He shuddered. Why was that the only name coming to mind right now? Dream had kept him in Logstedshire, yes, but he had tormented him. Or, wait, maybe they had been very close? Sure, his fond memories of him were usually framed by grief, exhaustion, and anger, but Dream was still his friend. Sort of. He didn't know exactly why, but he knew it was complicated. Perhaps Dream had been a particularly mean older brother? Tommy knew he had one of those once, primally, even though he couldn't remember his name or face. Or maybe Dream was his estranged father? Though he sort of figured Dream was a bit too young for that. Or maybe Dream was his best friend? He knew he had one of those, too. Oddly enough, none of those seemed to fit, but no new people came to mind either. Could Dream be all three? Or none at all? Who was he? Why did Tommy let Dream treat him so terribly?

For every good memory of the masked man, there were twenty bad ones. Nevertheless, he wanted to see Dream. But he didn't know where he could be, and he doubted he would come visit after finding out Tommy was dead. And when that thought came to pass, his mind was quick to argue that, "No, under no circumstances do I want to see that bad, bad man," because he didn't. Dream would hurt him. Dream would make him throw his things in a pit. Dream would curse him for being a bad friend.

He and Dream were friends, except when they weren't, and Tommy, in his warped state, couldn't tell whose fault that was.

But anyway, the nether. It was hellish hot there, yes, but Tommy felt cold to the touch. He supposed if he had ever touched a corpse, it would feel something like this. (Technically, he had. He just didn't remember. He was the one to bury Wilbur, and he did it alone. No one else bothered. He couldn't fathom how Wilbur, once a human furnace, was now ice cold.)

He kept seeing these silly pig-like men. He felt a certain fear and familiarity looking at them. He knew someone like them, he thought. Who had it been? He thought, maybe, he could imagine them. Wide-jawed, bedazzled with beautiful, bejeweled, golden trinkets, with a pair of unassuming and relaxed eyes that he knew didn't suit them. The pig-like men here didn't match, exactly. They did not wear gold and their eyes were small, beady. They had the kind of eyes you would be able to tell were piercing your soul, but they all seemed to look right through Tommy, which was unfamiliar to him. He thought they should have tried to kill him, maybe, but it was like they couldn't see him.

Now, all things considered, it was infinitely more important he remembered who he was than it was to remember others. Yes, maybe if he had a clue as to who was his friend and where he might find them, they could tell him who he was, but, sadly, he didn't have that. When he really pondered it, he could almost see himself. Once, distantly, on a tire swing, pushed joyfully by a brother he could still not remember. Again, in a cabin, under the loving hold of a father and mother. Then, leaving the nest, the father much older and the mother now gone, pursuing something he couldn't quite remember. Not too long ago, gathered around a table alongside his friends, signing his name to a fancy piece of parchment. Then, losing, losing, losing, over and over again.

Most of those memories slipped through the shallow cracks of his mind, not to be recalled until a later date, but the sense of love and loss certainly remained. Perhaps he lived a very sorrowful life and that was why he could only remember Dream now. Dream, who he was completely familiar with, and still unsure of. It made his head spin. Either way, he supposed, it didn't tell him who he was.

The nether was both beautiful and terrible. He didn't like the place, really. But there were friendly bridges leading over the huge lava lakes and over to new places. He avoided the portals that his mind screamed he couldn't go through. But he encountered many beasts that he expected to be hostile, but weren't. The large, sad, white thing that fluttered weakly through the air like a plastic bag was his favorite. They were pretty. He also liked the squarish thing that burned with hellfire beneath its cracks, but not as much as the other thing. Neither of them paid him any mind.

Eventually, Tommy came across a portal back to the overworld. He had never entered it before, to his knowledge. It was crafted in a way that reminded him of someone, but he wasn't sure who. When he stepped through, he found himself being melted away by a flurry of snowflakes.

He hissed and hid beneath the needles of a large pine tree, watching his fizzling skin slowly patch itself back up. It was getting dark now, the sun setting prettily over the icy sea. The snow was a new development, one he hadn't figured would hurt. But then, things he expected to hurt him didn't and things he always thought were harmless apparently were extremely harmful. Such is the way of being a ghost, he supposed. But now he was rather stuck, until the snow let up or, at the very least, lessened.

What a miserable time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo that's a doozy. So, yeah, Tubbo is bummed. Seeing how they ACTUALLY all reacted to Tommy's death made me consider rewriting some bits, but I decided against it. Anway, Niki is sussing ppl out. I wonder who she'll go after first. And Tommy is out of the nether. What will he do?


	3. Blue, Like Hydrangeas or Icicles or Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I guess I was going to ask before, but," Tubbo thought over what he was going to say next. "You said you're a shapeshifter, right?"
> 
> Quackity smiled nervously at the question because nothing good had ever come from it in the past, "Er, yeah. Have been since the day I was born!"
> 
> "Then…" he stayed quiet for a moment, and Quackity had a strange inkling he knew what he was going to say next. "I… I don't mean to be rude or anything, but… could you make yourself look like Tommy?"

By morning in the tundra, the snow had let up. By afternoon, it had started again, but was bearable for a pair of ghosts.

In L'manberg, it was just beginning to drizzle. The president and his men were discussing new trade routes and other changes to the country.

"And trade will be put on hold with the badlands until they solve their little crisis," Tubbo said, voice firm and leaderly. "And I want to cut back funding for agriculture, hunting, and tree chopping. We've got a steady supply in L'manberg and it'll be better for the environment."

Quackity, his new vice president, clicked his pen as he read over the list of new policies to implement. Tubbo was back to work, which was good for them as a country, but maybe not the best for his health. No one would have urged him back so quickly, and yet Tubbo was there, acting like a man again (even though Quackity was starting to realize he shouldn't have to.)

"... Oh, and," Tubbo's face turned sour. "I also want to set up a few monuments. Being that… two of our founding fathers are dead, I think it'd be good to get statues made before we all forget their faces."

Fundy made a face at that, but kept his mouth shut.

"Creative director Karl Jacobs? Think we can have something like that done?" Tubbo asked. 

"Oh! Uh, for sure," Karl replied placatingly. It was so rare anything he did around L'manberg was of use. Or, rather, it was rare that anything brought about by his political position was of use. Most of his most important work was done behind closed doors, though it wasn't like anyone else knew that. "Just give me the details and I'll get to it."

Quackity frowned, "Terrible to ask, but where are we getting the money for all this?"

"... My own pocket. I don't care. It's just important to me that this gets done," Tubbo sighed, turning his gaze from them all.

They walked on eggshells again. Almost everyone there was used to that kind of routine, having lived under Schlatt for so long. But these eggshells were different. They were less about avoiding anger and punishment and more about avoiding hurting anyone.

"Well, we have excess currently," Fundy said, looking over the country's funds. "Three stacks of diamonds could cover this, right? Depending on the size of the structures and how many."

"Whatever it takes," Tubbo said, standing up from his seat. "Cabinet meeting adjourned."

As he walked out of the meeting room, he felt dizzy. He wasn't used to dizziness. He wasn't built for it. A ram is made for crown-to-crown combat, and Tubbo was a ram hybrid. It wasn't in their nature to get dizzy. But ever since the funeral, Tubbo had felt like he was floating. It wasn't a good feeling, mind you. It was actually rather bizarre. Tubbo couldn't call himself a fan.

Tommy must have felt dizzy, having been so high up in the air. He must have felt dizzy and that must have been why he fell. Though Tubbo knew this wasn't the case, any form of denial was enough.

He wished it was easier to forget him. He had been able to pretend, not that long ago, that everything was okay. Even when he was sure Tommy never wanted to see him again, he knew he could be strong. But he never even got to see him. It had been so long.

He stumbled on the way down the stairs and braced himself awkwardly on the railing. Apparently Quackity had been behind him because he heard the sudden flapping of wings and a soft, "oh, shit!"

"Tubbo? You okay?" Now he was gripping his arm.

"Yeah," Tubbo said, quickly straightening himself out. "I'm just a bit tired."

"... I'm going to walk you home, man. You're all pale and shit," Quackity said. He hadn't been using his jaunty, light voice so much around him anymore. Tubbo had always been good at cheering people up and he'd figured Quackity wouldn't be so bad at it himself, but Quackity didn't operate like that. He didn't really comfort people either. He was just always there when you needed him, and Tubbo was grateful for that, at least, even though a quiet train of thought passed in the back of his head that his grief wasn't being handled well. 

With Quackity at his side, Tubbo made his way home. They parted at the door and Quackity grimaced before reminding Tubbo he could always call him if he needed help with anything, and a reminder that he understood things were hard lately. Tubbo appreciated it, of course, but he didn't know what Quackity could actually do to help him… Or, well, wait. Maybe he did.

"Big Q…!" he called, just barely before Quackity was out of his eyeshot completely. He turned with a confused, apprehensive expression before hurrying back to the doorstep.

"Need something, kid?"

"Yeah, actually, but," he paused, feeling a bit awkward. "It's a sad thing. Not a president thing."

"Well, we're friends, aren't we?" Quackity bumped his shoulder. "What's up, man?"

Tubbo invited him inside and they sat at his dining room table together. The place was starting to get dusty. Tubbo spent most of his time in his room these days, too sapped of energy to do much else. It was hard work, grieving your best friend whilst simultaneously running your country.

"I guess I was going to ask before, but," Tubbo thought over what he was going to say next. "You said you're a shapeshifter, right?"

Quackity smiled nervously at the question because nothing good had ever come from it in the past, "Er, yeah. Have been since the day I was born!"

"Then…" he stayed quiet for a moment, and Quackity had a strange inkling he knew what he was going to say next. "I… I don't mean to be rude or anything, but… could you make yourself look like Tommy?"

Quackity pursed his lips, thinking about what to say next. He didn't know what the proper next move was. Technically, yes, he was pretty sure he could, but he didn't know if it would be right to. To begin, Tommy was a dead person, so it seemed disrespectful somehow. Of course, he'd never had problems with impersonating the departed in the past. Wilbur was a victim of this before, and though it didn't seem like a big deal back then, he now wondered if it was right to turn himself into Tommy's dead brother or if that was actually completely fucked of him to do. That brings us to his next point, which was the fact that he didn't know what Tubbo could possibly have to gain from him imitating Tommy. What was his game here?

"Listen, I don't- I don't know if there's any point. Everyone  _ knows  _ the kid is dead. There's no doubt about it," Quackity said. "What're you playing at? What, are you wanting to… lure Technoblade out here or something?"

Tubbo paled, "No! That's not it! I… That would be mean. To everybody. This isn't for the Butcher Army or anything. It's for me. I just think, maybe if I see him again…"

Quackity frowned, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the wicker table. He understood the intent, but he wondered to himself. Would it actually help him?

"I mean," he stammered. "If… if it'll help, I can try? I'm not the best shapeshifter there is, you know? I never practice, so-"

Quackity looked Tubbo in the eyes and his excuses crumbled. Never more had he seen such a miserable sight. The bags under his shiny, begging eyes. The disheveled hair and clothes. The kid was a mess, completely reminiscent of his old friend, Schlatt, down to the horns. And his heart broke for him a little bit, so he just sighed.

"I… I'll give it a shot," he said, smiling weakly at him.

Tubbo watched in horror and curiosity as Quackity's face began to skew a little bit to the left, then grow longer and paler. His eyes popped out of his skull awkwardly before settling back in a new, uncertain greyish-green and his skin bubbled in a grotesque way. He swore he saw his teeth shift as Quackity went from himself to the mostly right, cruel imitation of his best friend.

It was so real. Not a hair on his head was out of place. Quackity even had the terrible posture down. He coughed in a voice that was similar to his friend's, though not an exact copy. The biggest discrepancy was the color of his eyes, being that unsure shade of green. Almost foamy, like Eret's pupilless eyes.

"I," he was British now. "Am I doing it right? Is this-" he pushed at his cheekbones, molding them into place in an unnatural way that would have unsettled Tubbo if it weren't the spitting image of Tommy he was looking at. "Is this him?"

"The," he swallowed. "The eyes are wrong. They're not that color."

He blinked once and they were brown, then again and they were back to the foam. "What color were they, exactly?"

"Blue," Tubbo said. "Like hydrangeas or icicles or something."

He blinked again and they were blue, in a shade that was just right.

Now, of course, Quackity wasn't a very good shapeshifter. There were little things he'd gotten wrong that not even Tubbo, who I would dare call an expert, would notice. His nose was a little too narrow and he'd mistaken whether Tommy had attached or unattached earlobes, but besides that, it was perfect, to the point where if you placed them both at a distance, maybe five feet away, it would be completely impossible to tell them apart. So, I suppose Quackity was learning.

Tubbo started crying and Quackity suddenly felt terrible.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, I'll stop!"

"Please don't," Tubbo said. "I can't- please, this is helping."

Quackity frowned, unsettled, "If you're sure."

Tubbo supposed there were a few differences between Tommy and Quackity's imitation, being that Tommy didn't frown in that way. Tubbo would know, having fought alongside him in the trenches and having watched his face at the trial and having seen his face as he sentenced him to his death.

But now, in his half-delusional with both joy and grief state, he could only babble onward, "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done it! I should have told Dream to fuck right off. I was just- I was- I'm a coward. Sorry, sorry, sorry."

Quackity kept his mouth shut, unsure what to say and unsure how to help. If it would help Tubbo move on, he would do it, but he didn't know how far he could let this all go.

Tubbo continued, "I'm sorry I never came to get you. And I want you to come home! Back to L'manberg. Dream can do whatever the hell he wants. We'll fight him. I don't care. Just please, please come home."

Tommy (Tommy? No, no, Tommy was dead, he reminded himself. Across from you is Quackity.) smiled tentatively at him from across the table, and said in a cadence similar to his own voice but not quite, "It's alright, big man."

Tubbo just sobbed harder, stood from his chair and wrapped Quackity in a bone-crushing hug.

Quackity knew there would have been better people to deal with this sort of thing. In fact, he was almost certain that most people he knew would be actually able to comfort Tubbo, except maybe Fundy, who was a little awkward, or Technoblade, who was a giant unfeeling asshole. But the power vested in Quackity was exclusive to him. No one else could even attempt something like this. Maybe if there were any goddamn psychiatrists in L'manberg, they wouldn't be in this sorry state. Maybe then, with an actual professional, they'd be able to function. But no, there he was, with a crying child on his shoulder, who also happened to be his boss, the president of this country, completely clueless.

Quackity wasn't Tommy. He was only pretending. And, granted, it was a pretty damn good imitation, but he didn't know what Tommy would do or say in this situation, or how to best help his friend. Instead, he just hugged the kid back, light enough that the kid could wrench himself away when he was ready, and he kept pretending. If it would help him, strengthen him so he could serve as president again, Quackity would do it. If it would help.

In time, I suppose he would learn that it was, in fact, not helping.

Ghostbur had wandered out of the house sometime in the morning, on the quest for more Blue. But then it began snowing and, because he didn't leave footprints, he found himself lost.

The snow began, much to his dismay. He hated gloomy weather for more than one reason. On one hand, the darkness reminded him of terrible memories. On the other, the precipitation burned him. He melted like a wax candle and it  _ hurt _ . Ghostbur couldn't stand it, but being lost gave him little choice but to endure it. It wasn't unbearable; It was only a light drizzle. He just hated it.

There were so many places here, barely marked, barely touched, but that felt distinctly walked through. A part of the forest that was only stumps, a part of the meadow where the frosted over grass was clearly stomped upon. And, of course, there were so many places that Ghostbur got the distinct feeling were completely unknown before he set his eyes upon them. An anthill or two along the baseline of hardy trees. A gnarled thicket of thorny underbrush.

One of those places that was barely touched was the icy sea. It was completely unremarkable, save for the nether portal on one small hill. He felt like the good memories he had in L'manberg, he was always surrounded by people. Without them, places like this were eerie. Felt haunted.

Of course, being that there were at least two ghosts here, that checked out.

As the wheels turned in his brain, seeing that familiar form floating dangerously close to the water, he called out, " _ Tommy! _ "

The boy whipped his head around and Ghostbur raced over, grabbing him by his spectral hands, taking note of the compass that stayed fastened within his grip. He spun him around and around, giggling like a child, carefree and giddy.

Tommy's face betrayed a horrible pain as he clutched his temple with his free hand and let out a quiet groan.

"Sorry, sorry! It's just that we were waiting for you!" Ghostbur explained. "Oh! Oh! I've been collecting Blue! Here, have some!"

"I… Do we know each other?" Tommy asked, his pain turning to confusion.

"... Oh."

Ghostbur felt his heart crack in half. Tommy didn't know him. Sure, Tommy had been a prolific part of Alivebur's good memories, stapled to him as a ghost, but perhaps Alivebur hadn't been a part of Tommy's. That was a painful thought, but perhaps it made sense. I mean, Alivebur wasn't exactly a good person, now, was he? He'd hurt so many people and Tommy had been a firsthand witness to that. Tommy had seemed to still look up to Wilbur, a bit, maybe. He'd buried him when no one else would, made his headstone, and asked him to take care of him like Wilbur used to. But maybe Ghostbur thinking that really meant he wasn't as irredeemable as it seemed was foolish. Maybe Tommy hated him. Maybe all he'd been was a bad memory. And maybe that was all he'd ever be. He tried to make it up to people, really, he did, but there were so many tabs to keep track of. So many people to apologize to. So many wrongs to make right. It was almost impossible to keep up with, but maybe he wasn't trying hard enough. Maybe he could never try hard enough. Maybe there was no way for him to stop being a bad memory, doomed to hopelessly remember only the good.

Ah.

But then, he was spiralling, wasn't he? Phil always warned him against that as a kid. Always reminded him not to play around in his own head too much. Because, and he'd said it like this, "Too much picking around in your own brain and you'll cause a cave-in, mate, and then you have to get someone to help you out or mine your own way out. And no one wants to be trapped in a cave-in." Then he'd ruffled his hair and carried him off to bed. How old had he been then? Eight? Maybe nine? What a nice memory.

"Hi! I'm Ghostbur!" he introduced himself, sticking out a hand for Tommy to shake. "This might sound strange, but you're my little brother! You died yesterday! Or, um, maybe before then. I have a hard time remembering, see."

His face went through a series of emotions before he settled on, "Right. That. That makes sense. I have trouble remembering, too. I'm Tommy."

"I know, silly goose!" Ghostbur said as Tommy watched him with a certain apprehension.

His brother, yes, that made sense. He knew he had one of those, or, or maybe two. It was hard to tell. He remembered loss. Losing. Over and over again. Ghostbur's life could have, perhaps, been one of those many losses. He was reluctant to talk to Ghostbur because something was strange about him. A disconnect, deeper than his memories that floated away like leaves in the wind. He triggered bad memories. Of manic giggling and doubt and heat. But he also triggered good ones. Of heart-filled laughter and pride and warmth. His brother, yes, that made sense, but perhaps not an ally. Perhaps not someone he wanted to remember from. Not yet.

But, being his brother, he had to trust Ghostbur wouldn't hurt him.

"Ah!" Ghostbur gasped. "Oh, there's so much I have to ask you about! Er, if you're okay with it, that is, and Techno and Phil are just dying to see you again!"

"Techno and Phil?"

"... What, you don't remember them either?" Ghostbur asked, an odd look on his face.

"Nope. Rings a bell, I guess, but not a very loud one," he explained.

"Technoblade is our brother, too! He's the oldest! And he's living! Phil is our dad. Er, don't remember when we started calling him Phil, exactly. Guess we just always have," Ghostbur rambled. "Like I said, they'd be over the moon to see you back around again! Come on, come on! Let's go to the cottage!"

"Cottage? I don't," he paused. "I don't think I ought to."

"Of course you ought to!" Ghostbur grabbed Tommy's hand, the one holding the compass, and paused, examining the spectral trinket. "... Oh! Wait, wait! What you really ought to do is come see Tubbo! Right away! I can't even imagine how much he misses you! You're always telling me how clingy he is and all, so-"

"No," Tommy said, panicked. "I can't. I'm not supposed to. I don't know why, but I know it's dangerous for me."

Ghostbur tilted his head confusedly before saying, "Ah, because of the ocean? We can take a boat! There's still one on the shore of Logstedshire! Don't worry! Come on, come on!"

"No! I can't! You can't make me!"

Ghostbur frowned, "... Okay, then! Where do you want to go! I'm looking after you! Just like you asked, okay?"

"I didn't ask you to do that," Tommy rebuffed.

"Yes, you did! Before you died!" Ghostbur explained.

"Then you did a piss-poor job of it, hm, ghost boy?" Tommy said, figuratively curling in on himself and physically tearing his hand from Ghostbur's. 

Ghostbur frowned harder, flickering back and forth between a strange, unfamiliar figure and himself.

"I'm sorry…" Ghostbur mumbled sadly. "I didn't know. Really, I promise. I genuinely didn't know you felt so terrible, Tommy. I wish I could go back and hug you and make you happy, but I can't and now you're like  _ this _ and…" he sniffled. "I really am so sorry. I'll look after you from now on."

Feeling awkward suddenly, Tommy asked, "How'd you do that?"

"Do what?" Ghostbur asked, still sniffling.

"The weird thing you just did. Where you flipped between yourself and some other thing real fast. Like a light flickering out."

"... Huh?" Ghostbur brightened quickly. "Oh! Oh, Tommy! This will be so much fun! I can teach you all about being a ghost! I can teach you to talk normally! I can teach you incorporeality! Invisibility! All the fun stuff! It'll be just like it used to be! Oh, we can even get you some potions in the meantime! There are some in my sewer! Just across the sea! Tommy, this will be so fun!"

Tommy perked up at the idea of learning to do cool shit.

"Yeah? Can you teach me to, like, possess bitches? Can you teach me to haunt stuff?"

"Er, uh, uh, uhh… Well, baby steps, obviously! I can teach you lots, so let's start right now, okay?"

"Okay, okay! How about you teach me to stop melting in this snow?" Tommy asked, annoyed by the light burning sensation on his shoulders and scalp.

"Hmm, no can do, actually," Ghostbur explained, gesturing to his own fizzling form. "This is sort of a part of the ghost thing."

Tommy groaned, "Man, is there  _ anything cool  _ you can do?!"

"Hmmm! Oh! I can lick my elbow! Here, watch!" he exclaimed and Tommy shoved him lightly in response.

"Just start the ghost lessons, big man!"

"Okay, okay, okay! But first, L'manberg! Then we can get out of the snow! Let's go!"

Tommy paled and took a step back from him, "No, I can't go there. Something bad will happen. No one wants to see me."

Ghostbur frowned, looking between Tommy and the treeline that Tommy supposed led to L'manberg. (Whatever that was. Home, maybe?)

"That sounds fake, but okay," Ghostbur sighed. "Then where do you suppose we go?"

"The other guys! What did you call them? Bill and Heck No?" Tommy asked.

"Phil and Techno!" he exclaimed. "Oh, they're gonna be so chuffed to see you back in the world of the living! Or, well, sort of back in the world of the living… Er, just one problem. I'm lost."

"Well, whatever. I don't care where we go so long as it's not that way," Tommy gestured to the direction his compass was pointed.

"...! The compass! Tommy, you're a genius!" Ghostbur exclaimed.

"I do fancy myself a bit of a genius," Tommy agreed, grinning. "... What'd I do?"

"All we have to do to get back to Phil and Techno is follow the opposite of the compass! I know the way based on where the tip is pointing! Let's go! Let's go!" Ghostbur explained, tugging on him.

Together, they floated all the way back to Technoblade's cottage, Ghostbur explaining too many things to begin to name to Tommy, who nodded along despondently. They kept to trees to avoid the soft flurries.

Back at home, Phil tugged on his wings anxiously, trying to stay mindful enough to keep himself from pulling out the feathers themselves. Technoblade was in the kitchen, chopping up mushrooms for soup, but Phil secretly suspected that he felt more in control, having a blade in his hand and a menial task to do. Ghostbur left early in the morning before it started snowing. They knew it was painful for him and now, being that he had been gone for hours and the snow had started back up, that he was probably stuck somewhere. Granted, the snow was barely a drizzle, but they weren't sure about the severity of this weakness. 

"Check for him out the window again, will you?" Technoblade asked, dumping the mushrooms in the pot.

Phil obliged, standing from his spot on the sofa and walking over to the window. He opened the shudders and gazed out into the tundra. It was so peaceful there, and the fresh layer of snow meant there were no footsteps left behind. Not even Ghostbur perturbed the idyllic peace since he didn't walk. But speaking of Ghostbur…

"Oh! I see him, mate!" Phil said happily. "Just past the trees!"

Technoblade rushed over from the pot and to see for himself. Sure enough, there was the telltale, barely translucent form of Ghostbur, bobbing along through the air like a fishing float at the end of a line. But he wasn't alone, and it didn't take a genius to recognize who those bold red and white colors belonged to.

"Is that…" Technoblade felt his heart stutter in his chest.

"Tommy!" Phil cheered, rushing out the door to stand on the porch to greet them when they arrived.

When Tommy saw the house, it reminded him of many things, all far in the past. It didn't look like the cabin Tommy remembered living in once, not really, but the craftsmanship was familiar in some ways and the winged man standing on the porch was familiar, too. He was bouncing on either foot, anxiously awaiting the two of them, apparently. Tommy made this same gesture himself when excited, though what he didn't know was that Phil was the one he picked it up from.

Apparently electing to wait no longer, the winged man hopped off the porch, completely neglecting the stairs and deciding to glide down to see his spectral sons. Tommy expected his descent to be slow, lazy. Instead, it was more like a hawk descending upon its prey. The fast movement frightened him and he tried to steel himself to keep from flinching, but he couldn't help but tense up a bit.

He wrapped them both in a hug, which Tommy would have liked to avoid, but chose not to comment on.

"Phil!" Ghostbur exclaimed. "You'll never guess who I found over by the nether portal!"

"Oh, I think I have a clue," he chuckled and held them both tighter.

"... Big man here's a bit clingy, huh?" Tommy said eventually, wrenching himself from Phil's grip.

Phil pulled back, laughing, "Sorry, sorry, I just… I'm just so glad to have you back."

"... So, um," Tommy smiled awkwardly. "You're Phil, eh?"

Phil short-circuited.

"Uh," he opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish. Tommy didn't remember him? Why not? What was so awful that he had done? How did he get himself condemned from Tommy's memory? "Uh. Yeah, mate. That's… that's me."

Ghostbur didn't notice the shift in mood as he smiled up at the other man on the staircase, "Technoblade! Come here! Look who I found!"

Tommy looked up at this Technoblade individual with a mix of awe and terror. Like with Ghostbur, there was a mix of good and bad feelings that came with making eye contact with him. On one hand, he felt like a sword. Sturdy, sharp, and protective. On the other, a sword was only good if it was in your hand. The second it became your enemy, it didn't feel so safe. Technoblade was a hybrid, which was a word he still remembered. He was the figure so reminiscent of the pig-like men in the nether. He was the bejeweled, royal, imposing memory. If memory served (and it so rarely did), Technoblade was Tommy's eldest brother. Somehow, this wasn't the most shocking thing to him. Maybe it was because he knew in his heart it was true.

Even though Technoblade didn't look malicious, Tommy could tell he was disturbed. He supposed he'd be a bit disgruntled too if his little brothers both died and then presented themselves as ghosts. That was always a strange turn of events. But more than that, he looked angry. And Tommy knew angry meant explosions and pits and isolation. Of course, Dream was his only point of reference for this, but Tommy couldn't help but cower at the glint in his eyes.

"I see 'im, alright," Technoblade said, frowning slightly. "Welcome home, Theseus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo bad coping methods let's gooooo and the ghost has been found let's gooooo


End file.
